


The Artist and His Muse

by angelaofthelord



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Art, Depression, First Kiss, M/M, Unrequited Love, at first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 13:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelaofthelord/pseuds/angelaofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is an artist after all, he sees in line and shapes and moments and movements. He sees him in the most abstract sense sometimes, behind the haze of intoxication and the rose tinted lenses of love and lust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artist and His Muse

**Author's Note:**

> This came about after I did some doodles (instead of revision) of Grantaire watching an abstract Enjolras. It's a bit of a strange one, for me anyway.

He is an artist after all, he sees in line and shapes and moments and movements. He sees him in the most abstract sense sometimes, behind the haze of intoxication and the rose tinted lenses of love and lust. A blur of light and lines and colour. A mass of shapes and words and patterns and passion.

When he is at his most impassioned is when Grantaire’s fingers twitch and ache for a pencil, a brush, _anything._ It is muscle memory pushing forth, waiting and longing for the smooth curves and shape angles of the face that he knows so well but has yet to touch. He can never capture him though, not truly. There is no talent in the world that can truly capture the passion, the glory, the ethereal glory and righteous fury. Grantaire is dimmed, a muted light, the barest flicker; but by him he can begin to glow anew – glow light he used to before life came and snuffed the hope and love of naïve youth.

 It is the one thing Grantaire might believe in.

Only this man would have the power to make such a jaded soul begin to hope again. he is Apollo, he is the sun, he is Grantaire’s moon and stars, gravity and orbit. He could not stray from him now even if he wanted to – which he doesn’t. But how can the shadow hope to be noticed by the light? What is a god to a mere mortal – _less_ than a mortal in his own case? Grantaire is half a man but he is so much more than that.

Grantaire may be half a man by the is an artist still. He does what he can and puts pencil to paper and draws. The proud chin, the full lips, the defiant spark in passionate eyes. Eyes that can change from icy and hard to soft and caring in a matter of moments. Soft curls ran through by slender fingers. This is the only place where passion runs through Grantaire’s life. Soft strokes of pencil on paper whisper the words he will never have to confidence to speak. Brush strokes across a page instead of soft fingers across golden skin. He swallows down alcohol like he should be drowning in kisses, like he should be swallowing that first surprised gasp. Silent “I love yous” pressed on to canvas. Whispered confessions lost in art. Only heard by the artist and never the muse.

Words that should only be uttered in private, away from prying eyes and cold, judging stares.

Here his is though, again. Watching, waiting, never speaking those words. All the other words though, they come stumbling forth of their own accord, he does not mean for the string of cynic sentences to come rushing forth like they do. They always do. In his biting and bitter tone he spits the words. He is angry at the world, at the injustice that will never be fixed. The endless suffering, his own and the rest of the worlds. It will always be there and they can never fix it. No matter how hard _he_ tries.

He wants to make him see, make him understand. If he keeps going like this Grantaire knows he will get himself hurt, the police never like the people standing up like this – shouting and causing trouble, even if the intentions are good and they are peaceful. Grantaire won’t always be there to protect him and he can’t bear it. Can’t bear to see his skin marred with blood and cuts and bruises.

He is spoken to – shouted at – the words he knows are true. He tells them to himself every day. That he is wasting his life, he has no potential, and he is _disgusting._

It is too much tonight though, too much for him to handle. This emotion bottled up inside, threatening to be released through pain and blood and broken skin. Instead he knows he has to paint. He has to release it in another way; he won’t go back to _that_.

Grantaire can feel their stares, the people he calls friends, the people he loves so much – as his family. They may not realise, they probably see him like he does. A waste of space, an annoyance. He loves them though, with a fervour that still surprises him. It is a family he never knew he wanted, he never knew he needed.

He keeps going though, he needs to be alone. Grantaire has been worse than usual tonight and it was a surprise he didn’t get thrown out sooner.

_…Wasting his life…_

He drowns himself in his art, pulling out the canvas with shaking hands, running his calloused finger tips over the smooth surface. His mind is too unsteady, too bright, too close. The pictures and images swirling in his mind are too loose and free to hold on to so he knows it will be abstract.

… _no potential…_

Red and gold and white and silver and black. The lines are aggressive and stabbing, short and biting. There is disapproval, haughtiness and a sharp gaze in those lines. Grantaire can feel the tears welling up in his eyes and burning and threatening to fall. He won’t let them though, he can’t admit defeat.

… _disgusting…_

He loses track of time, he has no idea how long he’s been painting for only that he’s panting and breathless by the end of it. He stares at what he has created, he doesn’t even remember doing most of it. It is Apollo, angry and righteous but still beautiful. There are the hints of blood there, the aftermath of a vicious attack, flags raised - red so red. He doesn’t know if the flags are dripping with blood but that is what he sees. His Apollo will fall, something will go wrong one day, he is sure of it.

Grantaire doesn’t know what to do now. The haze of the alcohol is beginning to fade; the throbbing in his head is a sure sign of that. Better the physical pain than the mental always always always.

His throat is choked, there is too much emotion pressing up and suffocating him. His head is spinning so much he almost misses the knock at the door. But still it comes, a metaphor he supposed for the pain in his head. His feet move of their own accord, he can’t leave the pounding alone.

And there he is.

Eyes no longer full of fury, hard and cold. They are soft and anxious, pained even.

Everything is softer. Curls framing the edge of his face, hard angles and sharp lines are muted and softened, the expressive face all the more human for it. So human he could actually imagine reaching forward and touching.

“I’m sorry.” The words come out of the full lips and they are barely heard, you see them being forming and you want to understand them but you can’t.

“I shouldn’t have been so hard on you, you have to understand. Grantaire I-“ he is struggling you realise then, this man that has never shown any doubt before in his life is stumbling over his words. Grasping for meaning and coherence. Your head is spinning, not from drink for once.

“What do you mean?” you manage to choke out, the words sticking in your throat not wanting to leave your mouth.

“You _do_ things to me Grantaire. I can’t think straight around you. Y-you are all I think about.” The last words are a whisper, barely there, more of a confession than anything.

You don’t think about it anymore, you can’t. If you do you’ll back out.

His eyes are still worried, and his eyebrows are furrowed. He looks so scared, so unsure of himself. So you do the only thing you can and step forward, softly ever so softly you press your lips to his. It’s the barest press, the slightest touch. It’s barely there, a promise of more.

You pull back and hold your breath. It’s only a split second but there are so many thoughts all at once. It is painful and crushing and the cynicism is there in full force. But then it happens. His beautiful marble face cracks, it splits and folds in to a grin. A grin you have never seen on his face before, there are laughter lines in the corner of his eyes. His eyes sparkle with human pleasure and intrigue.

He gives you no warning before he presses back against you, kissing you properly. Open mouthed, tongues battling against each other, deep, hot and passionate. He pulls back and bright blue eyes are looking back at you, full of laughter and newly directed passion.

“I love you Enjolras.”

You whisper to him. Endless brushstrokes and pencil marks, scratching’s on paper, ink on canvas has been in place of this. But nothing could have prepared you for the way it feels to have your muse say it back to you.

“And I you, Grantaire.”


End file.
